A/N: Before you begin reading, I would just like to say something.

I am very disappointed in whoever casted Jamie Bower as Jace Wayland for The Mortal Instruments movie. sigh

But alas, my opinions don't matter to those in the Hollywood world.

I finally started on my rewritten version of Intro to Butterflies. Sorry for the wait for those who read it. And, i've also started writing Things Left Undead again. And again, sorry for the wait. Writer's block is a curse, you know?

Hope you guys enjoy this one-shot.

"What the hell is that?"

"TEHEHEHEHE…," hushed my group and I mischievously. My fingers flew across the keyboard while my teeth zipped my mouth closed, trying to hold back the whooping bark of a laughter that was dying to escape.

"Oh, Martha. You rebel," cried Joey, my proud-to-be-plump best friend. "My heart is just simply racing, you whore."

"Don't call me Martha, slutbag," I rebutted back jokingly, ignoring the whore comment. "It's Marty."

"Sweetheart, if you wanted a pair of balls, you could've just asked me to lend you mine," suggested my other best friend, Alan. "We all know they're in the way whenever I need to wear my low-rise skinnies."

He's so gay, rainbows appear straight when it's next to him.

"Is anyone gonna answer me?" whined my older brother Craig. "What the hell is that guy?"

"Oh, get your granny panties out of your non-existent ass, Craig," I said. "And it's you. On Halloween, two years ago."

He nodded as if understanding. And then his head bobbing stopped abruptly. "WHAT? What do you mean that's me?"

"Do you remember having rash-like circles around each of your pectorals?" I asked.

He nodded slowly.

"Well, I forgot about the fact that you were allergic to coconuts."

Craig looked at me in genuine horror.

"Do you get it now? Or do you need me to explain it to you like I always do?"

"Oh, and honey," Alan said next pointing to the picture on the computer monitor. "That's not lipstick from the cute girl you thought you snagged. It's mine."

While the rest of us detonated into a fit of immature giggles, Craig clutched at his heart as if he was in intense pain.

On the computer monitor before us was a photo I snapped of my brother sprawled across our hammock in the backyard during our Halloween party. He was passed out half-naked from drinking one too many beers, and his beefy, muscular arms dangled from the edges. What cracked all of us up though, was his attire. We duct-taped coconut shells onto his chest, Hawaiian-inspired. The red surrounding his mouth really is Alan's red lipstick except that they didn't really kissed each other, like Craig assumed. I drew it on the bastard.

"Oh, Marty. What's it gonna take for you to learn?" sighed the last of my best friends, Mandip, the sensible and logical boy from India who we voted as "Most Likely to Survive a Traumatic Experience Without Eating Away One's Feelings, Running Away Like a Coward, or Crying Out Like a Drama Queen". I have to say, I'm kind of envious of my little dark friend, considering I do run occasionally when I feel pressured.

…actually, I run every time I feel pressured, so I take that back.

"You remember the last time you did something stupid like this? You came running to me devising a plan about escaping to the border of Canada because you were too much of a pussy to face the guy."

"Why don't you just jerk off already? You're talking like Martha's sissy dad," Joey sniggered.

I slapped him upside the head. "Stop calling me Martha for crying out loud. And don't call my dad a sissy." I exhaled a gust of air through puckered lips. "You know why he's like that."

We were all quiet for a moment.

As my closest companions, they were aware that my mom died by a bunch of dumb jackasses who were having a bit too much fun with a Wal-Mart shopping cart. So now, my dad is filling the void of a motherly figure, sometimes forgetting to play the part of the dad too. I don't blame him either; as Cyndi Lauper once said (or implied), girls have way more fun. Excluding that one week every month.

"And why is it that it's only you who's calling me Martha?" I asked Joey, genuinely curious. "When did this start?"

He looked up from beside me, his eyes wide looking as if I had just caught him watching porn on his new laptop.

"I call you Margaret," Craig chipped in.

"That's because you can't remember my name," I pointed. "I can't believe I live with a disgrace like you." I returned my attention back to Joey. "So?"

"I am not sure it is wise to I state my reasons aloud," he shifted uncomfortably beside me. "You may be a coward, but all you girls are the same when it comes to anger issues."

"True," I agreed. "Tell me anyway, douche-face."

Joey glanced at Mandip and Alan, even Craig, for help. When none had any nothing offer but helpless expressions (Craig just stared at him stupidly), Joey sighed heavily. He took a breath.

"So you remember that one ginger, right? The one who you always—"

"Yes, yes, Craig's one and only bosom buddy?" I said impatiently. "What's he got to do with this?"

"I'm getting to it, you impatient cow," he said exasperated. "Anyway, do you remember the first time we all met him?"

"Yeah…and Alan asked for his number?"

He shot me a glare. "And you complained to me that all the hot ones are guy. How do you think I feel?"

"I'll have to agree with you on that one," I said to Alan. "He is pretty hot for a ginger. Even Mandip thinks so."

Mandip nodded in agreement. "He's the type that my parents would be proud to call their own son."

"Anyways," Joey continued. "When we all introduced ourselves, you dubbed yourself as Marty."

"Yeah? So? What's your point?"

Joey fanned himself like a ditzy girl would on a hot day. Alan's nasty little girl habits are rubbing off of us.

"Well, you remember him laughing at you right? And you thought the man was off his panties."

I scoffed. "Well, he was."

He ignored me. "And well, after his little giggly fit, he said one of the worst things you could ever say to a girl, pretty or not."

I narrowed my eyes. "And what was that?"

"'Isn't Marty a boys' name?'"

Mandip, Alan, and Craig started choking themselves with laughter.

Joey stared at them with sad eyes of betrayal. "Am I the only deeply affected by her actions after he said that?"

"What? When I kneed him in the groin and socked him in the throat before he could cry—scream—in pain?" I said matter-of-factly. "You lost your balls of courage when you witnessed me do that?"

"You never know when the time comes for me," Joey said. "But I sure as hell don't want it to be you. You defend yourself like the fucking Chuck Norris."

"Relax Joe-bacca," I said. "I wouldn't permanently impair my best friends."

"That never stopped you from beating the hell out of me," Craig said.

"You're my brother, not my friend. You don't count," I said to him. "So Joey, if you don't want to be handicapped anytime soon, stop freaking calling me Martha. You're making me sound old."

"Roger that."

"Can we get back to finishing this message we are sending to our dear ginger friend?" Alan asked impatiently. "My niece made an appointment with me to do her toes today."

"Don't you give me sass, princess," I retorted. "I'm almost done anyway."

I went over my handiwork, revised a word or two, and sent the Facebook message to our victimized acquaintance.

We erupted into hushed giggles once again when our mission was complete.

We sent a message consisting of the aforementioned picture and a caption that said, "How would you like to ride this the next time you're drunk?"

I sighed, leaning into the comfy office chair, relaxing. "Man," I said, "who knew that pulling pranks on Facebook was so exhausting?"

"Honey, all you did was attach a picture and type up five words," Alan said. "Go renovate your entire wardrobe, and then come talk to me about exhausting."

"Uh, excuse me, Alan, but it's twelve words, not five," I corrected.

Sudden, a girly, bubbly beeping sound resonated behind me. Oh, Craig. When will you learn to grab a hold of your masculinity and not let it fall in your girlfriend's grasp?

"Hey, what do you know," he said, surprised. "Trace is coming over."

I stiffened. I could feel all of my joints lock into place, my tendons and ligaments and muscles freeze with tension and panic. My body immediately launched into fight-or-flight mode, and the overwhelming surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins like the flooding Nile River. It was making me kind of dizzy.

Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.

Well, motherfucker. The devil is arriving.

Looks like it's going to be "flighting".

"Fuck," I hissed, jumping out of the office chair hastily. I jumped so quickly, I ended up face down on the carpet floor. I pushed myself up, my face flushed and my eyes frazzled and crazy. I had to get out of there.

I grabbed Joey roughly by his shirt collar.

"Okay, here's the game plan," I breathed. "I'm going to escape through the backyard. I'm going to jump the fence like a total badass ninja to get to the front yard. I'm gonna run two, maybe three blocks down the road, hiding behind some bushes between the park and Mrs. Robins' house. Your job is to bring the car. Got it? Okay. I gotta bounce, bitches."

And I was off. Not as smoothly as I would've liked it since I kind of ran into the screen door and bounced back onto the floor.

Shit, when I said I was going to bounce, I didn't mean literally.

I heard sniggers behind me.

"What was that, Trace?" Craig said loudly and deliberately to get my already twisted panties further up my ass. "You're going to be here in how many minutes? Two?"

I squeaked and forced myself up. I remembered to slide back the screen door this time, and I dashed through my dad's garden of pansies (oh, the irony) and attempted to hop the fence like a ninja.

I sprinted, building up speed and momentum, and took off like a plane. I thank my lucky stars for my experience in track otherwise I would've bounced back like I did with the damn screen door.

Gripping the top, I pulled my leg over so that I was basically straddling the really uncomfortable fencing. I saw a red truck pulling into our driveway, and my heart nearly stopped from attacking my ribs so violently. Panicking once again, I tried to pull my other leg over, but I heard a terrifying shredding sound.

This was a serious dilemma.

Scratch that. "Serious" is an understatement.

"Well, crap," I muttered as I inspected the damage done to my grey sweats.

A giant slash started on my inner left thigh, and the cut finished as it swerved and curved sharply to my left butt cheek.

"Well…crap," I cursed more fervently.

I considered my options:

1. I could hop the rest of the way and risk having Trace see my mutilated pants as I ran away.

2. I could retreat and risk having the other pant leg torn, but also having to face the "men" who currently occupied the basement.

3. I could just sit there and face Trace and endure the awkwardness that was bound to occur.

Ugh. Screw Trace. I'm retreating, man.

After making my official decision, I turned to lift my right leg of the fence but a smooth, amused voice stopped me.

"What are you doing?" Trace asked, raising his eyebrow. I could spot a faint smirk tugging at his rosy lips. He wore a grey beanie over his head, but that didn't stop his longish fiery hair to stick out messily.

Ignoring the hammering of a certain organ, I scoffed. "What does it look I'm doing, genius?"

He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slim-fitting pants that hung low on his hips, exposing grey plaid boxers. I inwardly drooled.

When he opened his mouth to answer, I interrupted him. "Don't answer that," I said quickly.

He smirked evilly. "Why not? Scared I'll say something…offending?"

I flushed but narrowed my eyes into bone-chilling slits.

Instead of cowering like I so desperately wanted him to, his smirk only deepened. Sonovabitch.

"Whatcha gonna do, Marty?" he taunted. "Knee me in the balls again? Pummel my throat, maybe?"

He looked me up and down, accessing my current dilemma. He clicked his tongue and sighed in a mocking fashion. "Oh, but you can't, can you? Considering…" He motioned me with a wave. "You're kind of occupied, aren't you?"

I wanted to rip the off the piece of fencing and beat him until there is nothing more but a puddle of blood and red hair, but I didn't want to risk getting a splinter.

"But you know, you are lucky to be where you are right now," he mused. "Who knows what I would do to you if you were on level ground with me."

And with that, I paled. My anger dissipated, and dread and fear quickly occupied the space in my gut. Suddenly feeling shaky, I struggled to stay tall and upright. I ain't gonna let pretty boy mess this girl up.

"TRACE! Where the hell are you, you dirty dickhole!" Craig screamed somewhere inside the house. "I think the cheese is burning!"

Never in my life have I been grateful for my dumb older brother.

Furrowing his eyebrows and wrinkling his nose at the front door, he sighed. He glanced back at me, amusement still evident in his amber-colored eyes.

"Duty calls, my dear," he drawled out slowly, especially the last two words. "Watch out for me next time," he warned while pulling off a flawless wink.

I didn't bother hiding my groan as he walked away, chuckling to himself. After the front door closed, my leg started tingling uncomfortably. Frowning, I pulled out my vibrating phone that miraculously didn't drop.


"Marty? Where the hell are you? I'm at the rendezvous point or whatever waiting for your hairy ass!" Joey exclaimed on the other line.

"Code red, dude, we have a situation." I sneezed. "I'm still back at the house, by the way."

"Code red? What, for battle or something?" There was a slight pause. "Oh, sweet Jesus, you're actually gonna kill him? Shouldn't this be the other way around or something?"

"No, you dumbass!" I snapped. "I mean, we have a situation. Code red is just for dramatics."

I could sense him raising his eyebrow. "Well, that's just completely irrelevant. Code red's not joke, man."

I ran a hand over my coral brown hair. Coral brown sounds weird, but I can't really find a way to describe my hair color. It's brown, but not quite brown because there's this almost orange tone to it. Peculiar, really.

"Dude, just pick me up," I said. "I really don't give a whale's penis about your codes and terms and shit."

A vibrating sound emitted on the Joey's line. It sounded…wet and spitty. Joey was blowing raspberries.

"Okay, you demanding, menstruating woman. I'm on my sweet, freaking way." And with that, he hung up.

My ass cheeks became numb, my stomach was growling mercilessly, and the sun decided it was time to draw the curtains, leaving an unpleasant chill to the spring air. My torn sweats did nothing to trap the warmth escaping my legs.

Suddenly, I felt like screaming in frustration.

I forgot to remind Joey to bring spare pants.


For the rest of that weekend, I stayed cooped indoors where I felt the safest. In fact, I treated my own home as if it was a war zone and I was one of the innocent civilians caught in the middle of everything. When I was hungry, I ordered Craig (and occasionally Dad when Craig's womanish whines got on my nerves) to deliver the food. When I felt the urgent need to use the restroom (by urgent, I mean on the verge of literally pissing everywhere; I wasn't gonna take chances unless it was absolutely necessary), I would cover myself from head to toe with my old camouflage imprinted sleeping bag from the olden days when I used to build forts with Joey (…actually, I still do that). I would then crawl as swiftly and silently as I could to the bathroom located directly across the hall from my room.

I stayed in contact with my comrades through video chat in the haven of my room, doors locked and all.

"Don't you think you overreacting? Just a little?" Mandip voiced his thoughts. "I take that back. You're going overboard with all this security stuff."

"Oh, shut up, Manny," Alan snapped lightly. "Listen sweetheart, you do what you girls gotta do. Stay away from boys. They'll break your hearts and give you life-threatening cooties. Boys are wild animals." He leaned in, checking his appearance on his computer screen. "And besides, more man meat for me."

I rolled my eyes. "You sound like my dad when he's in Mom-mode."

Ugh. I was getting so hot.

Goddamn it. Even in my own room, I was paranoid as I could possibly get. As of right now, I'm in my closet with the door closed accompanied by my laptop. But even inside the closet, I have a blanket covering me completely. So yeah. I'm freaking hot.

"Well, someone's gotta be the woman of this group," Alan said carelessly.

I sputtered, completely offended. "That wasn't very nice! I'm as much of a woman as the next chick down the block!"

Alan leaned in, an apologetic expression on his face. "Honey, that 'chick' isn't a…well, chick. Trust me, I would know."

I dropped my face in my hands, groaning.

"Why me?" I grumbled in my hands. I looked at my companions, all looking sympathetic, confused, and amused. "Maybe Trace is right," I said, grimacing. "Maybe I am a man."

Joey howled with laughter. Mandip, who is usually calm and collected, seemed worried with me.

"He didn't say that about you, Marty. He was referring to your name," he assured me.

"So what? I have to change my name now?" I paled. "Oh no! What if I have to go by Martha now?"

"Calm down, hon. Just take deep breaths," Alan soothed.

I did what he told me, but it only agitated me even more. It was just so damn stuffy in my closet.

"It's not working!" I panicked, starting to hyperventilate, sort of.

"Dumbass! Get out of your freaking closet, stupid!" chastised Joey.

Without thinking, I burst out of my closet in a sweaty mess. As soon as the cool air hit me, I calmed down immensely. But it was not enough.

Roaring,—yes, I roared—I flew across the room to my window.

With shaky fingers, I drew up the blinds and slid my window open. I propped my chin on the sill and allowed my arms to dangle carelessly over the edge. I closed my eyes and sighed, relaxed and totally content…until I felt small wisps of air smelling faintly of onions and burgers.

When I opened my eyes, laughing tawny eyes greeted mine.

I immediately screamed…very un-girl-like. My holler consisted of my low, tenor chest voice and earth-shaking vibratos. As soon as I realized this, I instantly modified my bellow into a pathetic, girlish ear-splitting screech. I reached for the window to slide it shut; I did so without noticing that his fingers were now resting on the same spot that my head once was.

My scream drowned out the painful crunch or snap or whatever sound his fingers made when I slammed the window shut. My scream also happened to drown out Trace's own cries of agony.

Because I was too damn scared to reopen the window, I grabbed a ruler sitting on my desk nearby and gently poked and prodded his wounded little limbs out from the tight grasp. Once his fingers were free, I shut the window for sure this time and locked it.

I was screaming the entire time, switching my pitch from high to low at uneven intervals.

Shrieking continuously, I looked up and stared at Trace's pained eyes, noticing that he too was squealing like I was, before drawing the blinds.

My throat scratched raw from screeching for so loud and so long; therefore, I wasn't surprised that my voice barely came out when I ran to my dad.

"Daddy! Help me cross the border to Canada!"


I thanked the stars, God, Jesus, Joseph and Mary that I did not go to the same school as Trace.

If I was that crazed at home, I think I would've imploded or something if I had to face him where I was vulnerable for six and half hours.

I heard from Craig that he only broke two of the fingers (whew) and not his entire hand like I so awfully assumed. Damn it! Now he's going to find even more reasons to avenge himself.

I shook my head.

No, he's graduating in a couple of months and then he'll be off to college (hopefully somewhere in a different city, preferably out of state).

Wait…he's graduating…

I clutched at my stomach as if the thought was so pleasurable, it brought me pain.

How could I have so blind? He was Craig's best friend. How could I forget that Craig was a senior?

…never mind. I know why I keep forgetting.

But no matter! Things are looking my way!

Sniggering as I made my way to Craig's car, I noticed that he and a group of his senior friends were hollering at people passing by. Including me.

Craig pointed his finger rudely at me. "HAHA! SOPHOMORE!"

This is one of the many reasons for my forgetfulness.

Rebutting, I pointed my finger at him and shouted just as loudly as he did, if not louder. "HAHA! VIR—"

He rolled himself over the hood of his car—you know, like how they do in the movies?—and covered his greasy hands that still smelled like fries over my mouth. And with that, he began to berate me about my behavior like a small child who got caught trying to steal the crayons just so she can get a head start on the day's coloring. Not like I actually did that in kindergarten or anything. Really.


"Have I told you guys how much I love barbeques? Because I do," I announced while dipping my finger in a nearby bowl of barbeque sauce. Upon seeing this, Dad smacked my hand away with feminine grace.

"Seven times, actually," Joey said, bored. "Eight now."

I pinched his round cheeks like an old lady would with mine. "Aw, is little dear Joey paying attention to me?" I cooed.

He stared back with narrow, killer eyes. "Your dirty fingers weren't disinfected," he growled.

I narrowed my own eyes playfully at him. I stopped pinching his cheeks, but I poked it like an old lady would with my face when she thought I was absolutely adorable. "Why, aren't you picky with cleanliness? I see a future wife blooming out of you."

I quit playing with his cheeks and hopped on the stool seated by the kitchen island. While munching on the veggie flavored straws sitting there, Alan sighed next to me.

"I don't understand how you two aren't dating. All this bickering is reminding me of old married couples," he mused. Mandip nodded thoughtfully in agreement.

Joey and I stared at each other, as if in disgust before breaking down.

"Oh geez, you're hilarious, Alan-poo," I wheezed.

"Oh, God, you're such a romantic," Joey added breathlessly.

Alan seemed totally unaffected and not offended by our responses which is no surprise, since we've all been friends for years. "Well of course. What did you expect me to be? A hardcore wrestler?" he snapped. "Actually, that sounds like a very appealing idea."

"Oh, Alan, me and Joey...that would be like…incest," I shuddered. "'Cause you see, Joey is like the brother I've always wanted. And Craig…well, Craig is the brother I would leave at the mall and tell everyone I don't know him."

"Oh, you're horrid," Mandip said. "Craig isn't that bad."

Silence ensued.

"I take that back. I agree with you whole-heartedly."

Everyone else voiced their agreements.

Today was such a great day so far. After surviving the entire week without any complications with a certain red-headed beauty—I mean, butthead—I was ready to relax this weekend with the spring barbeque my dad is hosting. And I love, love, love barbeques.

Sigh. It's going to be a fantastic day.

A loud crashing noise erupted in the living room. I turned and saw Craig strutting in like he owned the place (well…technically he lived here). He was screaming at the top of his lungs.


Everyone winced at his booming voice.

"Indoor voice, young man! This isn't the goddamn playground!" shouted my dad who was showing off his feisty motherly side. "And bring it out here to the grill!"

Craig shrugged and proceeded on his way.

"Wow, thanks for the shutting the door in my face, Greene," muttered a dangerously familiar voice.

I snapped my head back to the door and stiffened.

He froze.

I froze.

Everyone froze.

Hell, I even think my dad iced over.

I jumped out of the stool, falling on my face as I did so, and sprinted out of the opened sliding door to my backyard. And I mentally bet Joey my bottom dollar that Trace is running too. As I passed Dad, I realized that he didn't look concerned at all but amused at the scene of a vengeful boy chasing after his daughter. Seriously. Where's the overprotective daddy I'm looking for right now?

I hopped the fence—more successfully this time, I might add—and ran towards the park located not too far ahead of me. My lungs started burning already, and I mentally cursed myself for my lack of endurance and stamina (I may've done track, but I was always the last one to finish a warm-up lap). I peeked over my shoulder and squeaked. He was closer to me than I had anticipated. Damn.

Damn the men of the world and their physical abilities.

I bounded up the stairs of a jungle gym and put up my hands into a "T".

"Time-out!" I wheezed.

He slowed his pace and stopped right below me, staring up with an expression that read: "No. Freaking. Way."

Well, I'll be damned.

As he made a move to spring up the jungle with me, I turned for the semi-giant swirly slide. When I let go of the railing, I realized a moment too late that Trace wasn't going to come up the jungle gym at all. He was in fact headed around the opposite end. Towards the end of the slide. For me.

For some reason, the slide was awfully super slippery, so I had the most trouble trying to halt myself.

But alas, my efforts were to no avail. If I was going to go down, I decided, I was going to go down hard.

And hard I did go down.

We both grunted when I collided almost violently into his unprepared body. The impact was so strong we rolled over three times before he finally ended up on top of me.

Me thinks…I might've shitted my pants right then and there, but you know, you could never be too sure.

"Shit," I mumbled. How many times have I injured this boy in the past month?

Trace groaned in my shoulder. The deep tenor vibrations coursed through out my body. I shivered.

My breaths came out short and shallow, part from fear as to what he planned to do to me and part from nervousness because he was so damn close to me.

I gulped.

I twisted my head the opposite direction of where his head was and saw his injured fingers wrapped in a green cast. I noticed black markings, evidence of someone signing it.

1st 2 sine bichis!, it read.

Rolling my eyes, I automatically knew it was Craig. Only he would spell "bitches" like that.

I heard another groan, and my momentary distraction dissipated. I stiffened. My body became a complete and total lifeless rock under his.

I realized that I had to get away while he's still down. So I tried wriggling my way out but again, but my efforts were to no avail.

Damn the men of the world and their excess fat.

I writhed underneath him, my hands digging uselessly into the sand. As if noticing this, Trace tightened himself around me.

"Now," he murmured, "what do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing genius?" I said back, disappointed that my voice came out breathless instead of firm and mighty.

"Sweetheart, you don't remember what I told you last week do you?" he spoke softly.

I scoffed nervously. "Heh heh, sure don't."

"You sure about that?"

I gulped. "I'm just kidding, you silly goose! Why would I forget?" I rambled quickly.

Resting on his elbows, he lifted himself up but only slightly. If I thought his closeness was bad before, it didn't compare to this. Because now, he stared at me with his narrow-shaped gold eyes.

I think I may've stopped breathing for a second or two.

"What to do, what to do…," he whispered, his eyes skimming my entire face but lingering on my lips a second too long. "What should I do with you?" he drawled out slowly.

I shivered again.

Ugh, and I couldn't stop staring at him.

His oval-shaped face; his almond-shaped yellow-brown eyes; prominent cheek bones; messy, straight ruby hair; pink, wet lips…



He breathed out slowly. His breath smelled suspiciously of chocolate ice cream.

"Oh," he said suddenly, his lips quirking upwards slightly. "I think I know what to do with you…" He turned his head and whispered in my ear. "Marty Greene."

And then he kissed me.

"Young man! You get the hell off my daughter right this instant!"

So now my dad decided to play the role of the overprotective father.